


Phil of 221c Baker Street

by Hencemyname



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Humor, M/M, Mild Language
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-09-13
Updated: 2013-09-27
Packaged: 2017-12-26 12:08:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,310
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/965752
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hencemyname/pseuds/Hencemyname
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An ordinary man moves into 221C Baker Street.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Meet Phil

**Author's Note:**

> For Mandie, if she ever stumbles across this.

**Phil of 221C Baker Street**

_**221C Baker Street** _

_**Phil Gets Acquainted with His New Neighbors** _

__

Phil is in the middle of making his world famous pasta primavera when the lights explode overhead and the ceiling begins to shake.  He barely manages to leap to the safety of the living room before it gives out and collapses into rubble onto his kitchen floor.

After a few minutes of silence have absconded, he deems it safe enough to poke his head around the corner and look into what remains of the kitchenette.  A bit of plaster has crushed his stove--taking dinner with it, dammit—and he thinks he can see the dusty outline of what remains of his dining table.

He takes a deep breath, trying to think of the sweet Mrs. Hudson and reduced rent before he calls through the hole.

“Everything alright up there?”  He doesn’t like to judge until he gets all of the facts, which keeps him from ranting over the state of his kitchenette. 

There’s a brief moment of silence before a rather put upon voice calls back, dripping with sarcasm, “Quite.”

The posh voice is suddenly muffled and another man yells, “Oh, Jesus!  I am so sorry!  That was… that was just a, um, faulty wire on our end.  Speak to Mrs. Hudson and she’ll put the cost of repairs on our rent.”  There’s an awkward pause and then, “You must be the new neighbor!”

Phil squints upward into the hole and can just barely make out the silhouette of a person, their head titled down toward him.  He waves and a blurry hand waves back.

“Yeah,” Phil says slowly, wondering what kind of faulty wiring causes an entire ceiling to cave in.  “The name’s Phil.  Just moved in last week.”

The person is nodding.  “Oh, lovely!  I’m John and this one-” A taller silhouette steps carefully around the hole in their floor and moves to stand next to the other one. “-is Sherlock.  Say hello to our new neighbor, Sherlock!”

“How long do you plan on staying here?”  Sherlock says instead.  John jams his elbow into Sherlock, making him cry out.  There’s a quick scuffle, which Phil can barely keep track of, before the shorter man is back.

“He says hi,” John says sheepishly.  “It’s very lovely to make your acquaintance!”

Phil’s just about to respond when John is suddenly dragged backward and away from the hole as Sherlock shouts “Boring!” somewhere off in the distance. 

Phil is left, craning his neck and feeling like he missed something important.

“Nice to meet you…” He says to the emptiness.

So goes the first meeting.

 

 

 

_**221C Baker Street** _

**_Phil Gets Ready for Bed_ **

****

Phil has just finished trimming his mustache and is situating himself in bed when the noises start up.  At first it’s a soft thumping sound, which makes him chuckle.  He remembers his uni days, which had been a pleasant blur of women and keggers.  While that had been nice for the time, he’s since calmed down and prefers the simplicity of single city living.  ( _Ladies._ )

He puts on his reading glasses and grabs his Clancy novel, snuggling under the covers.

“Oh, sweet Jesus fuck _. Harder!”_

Phil pauses in the middle of a paragraph.  The voice sounds a hell of a lot like John, one of his neighbors from 221B.  ‘Good show.’ He thinks.   ‘The man is getting laid.  Pleasant chap.’

After a few moments of silence, he picks up where he left off in his novel.

Thud.  “Is that hard enough for you, Watson?”

Phil startles, eyebrows shooting up at the sound of Sherlock’s voice.  He almost winces but really, that’d be a gross overreaction given the day and age.  This is London, after all, and he’s nothing if not open-minded.

Running on that pep-talk, he takes a calming breath and tries to resume his reading.

‘Tries’ being the imperative word for not a moment later all hell breaks loose.

THUD THUD THUD “ _Ohhhhh fuck!  Fuck fuck fuck.  Yeah, right there!  God, Sherlock!  M’god, I swear-”_

BANG SLAM HISS MOAN THUD

“Yes, take it.  Take my cock.”  THUD  “You.”  Thud.  “Belong.”  Thud. “To.” Thud thud thud.  “ME!”

BANG SLAM SLAM SLAM SLAM

“God, yes!   Oh, I’m coming!  I’m coming!  Mmm, Sherlock.”

Phil feels the blood draining from his face as he practically throws himself out of bed and toward the living room; heading for his television set.

He cranks the volume and fumbles a cigarette out from his jacket with shaking fingers.  He’s searching for his lighter when the telephone begins ringing. 

A distraction!  Yes!

He practically trips on his way to answer the phone.  He finally manages to pick it up on the fourth ring with a deliberately gruff, “Philips residence.” 

There’s a brief stretch of silence before a deep voice drawls, “ _Phil Philips?_ ”

Phil instantly recognizes the voice as _Sherlock_ and feels his balls shrivel just a bit in abject terror.  He’s not homophobic by any stretch of the imagination but he’d really rather not be caught overhearing someone else’s sexy times—gay or otherwise.

He clears his throat and goes for a curtly nonchalant, “Yup, speaking.” 

Damn it, that was too nonchalant!  The man’ll probably think he’s been listening with an eager ear pressed to the floor!

Sherlock scoffs, his voice deep and sarcastic.  “ _PHILIP Philips_?”

“Right-o.” 

Lovely!  He might as well have invited the man up for a chat about his shagging techniques with how obvious he’s being!

“….Anyway.  Do keep it down.  I don’t need you broadcasting your horrendous taste in media while John’s trying to rest.  I trust I don’t need to call again.”

The phone clicks and Phil’s left staring incredulously at the receiver.

 

 

 

_**221C Baker Street** _

**_Phil Goes Jogging_ **

****

Phil stares in displeasure at his scale and decides then and there to get healthy.  He should take up jogging or something.  He’s packed on almost a stone since uni and it shows with the way his shirts are beginning to strain.   He’s only in his mid-thirties; no need to let himself go--especially since he’s still single.  ( _Ladies._ )

Feeling motivated, he changes into a pair of sweats and an older jumper.  He finds a water bottle left over from his football days, grabs a rag, and heads out of the apartment building.

He hasn’t even cleared the kerb when a white van screeches to a halt beside him.  Two large men hurl themselves out of the back; dressed from head to toe in black and carrying pistols.  Phil’s eyes widen and he turns to go back inside, but he’s too slow.  One of them grabs him from behind and yanks him around, manhandling him into the van with a vicious shove of their gun.  He drops his water bottle and rag on the way.

He’s terrified, quite frankly.  And gasping for air.  God, he really needs to get in shape.

A rough spun bag is shoved over his head and the van is peeling back into traffic; Phil officially kidnapped.

“You think you could get away with it?”  One of the two kidnappers growls, both having situated themselves on either side of his person.

Phil swallows.  “I-I’m sorry.  Get away with what?”  He tries to think of any nefarious deeds he may have gotten up to but comes up blank.  Unless they mean when he’s had a few too many to drink; in that case, he’s hopeless because he tends to black out after a few beers.

“Don’t play stupid with us, Holmes!  We’ll get it out of you—one way or another!”

His heart sinks.  He isn’t a Holmes; he’s a Phil.  They—whoever _they_ are—have kidnapped the wrong bloke.

“You’ve got the wrong-” Something hits him in the mouth and pain explodes in his head.  He thinks he can taste blood.

He’s just about to start _throwing punches_ —read: sobbing in terror-- when the van jerks to a sudden stop, sending him pitching forward.  Not a second too soon, he hears the back doors being flung open and a woman shouting, “FREEZE!”

Hands grope at the bag on his head and then, suddenly, the daylight is blinding him.  Once his eyes adjust, he sees at least ten uniformed coppers with guns aimed at him.  He immediately puts his hands over his head, shaking with relief.  His kidnappers follow suit.

A tall, lithe man—Phil eyes his physique jealously-- steps out neatly from behind the coppers and makes his way toward the van.  The man’s dressed smartly in tailored grey trousers, gleaming shoes--that are probably Italian in design and obscenely expensive-- and a long, thick woolen Belstaff original; just a hint of a starched white collar peeking out from under the dark coat.  Phil saw that same coat advertised in Men’s Daily and thought it’d be too “Gee, I wonder if he’s going to trail me into a back alley” on him.  Not to mention the price…

He takes in the man’s dark curly hair enviously—which is tamed into a style that’s probably fashionable and modern.  Phil thinks mournfully of his own bushy ginger froof and despises this posh man on sight.  At least he’s nowhere near as pasty as this fucker; he’s Welsh if he weren’t a day, which contributes to his ruddy-cheeked, sun-roughened complexion. 

‘Milk tea over here’s probably never even seen a decent sunny day without bursting into flames.’ He thinks uncharitably.  Outwardly, he smiles politely at the man.  And winces.  He’s forgotten about his lip.  Ow.

Said posh man seems to be assessing him back, almost colourless eyes categorizing and analyzing as they probably take in the sweats and dirty jumper.  Phil almost jumps when the man reaches out a pale hand, dangling a handkerchief from between two long fingers.

“For the blood,” the man clarifies in a chillingly familiar drawl.

Phil takes the handkerchief and takes note of its ridiculous silky expensiveness.  He half expects it to disintegrate in his fat, lower class fingers.  He idly makes note of the monogrammed name before his brain catches up and he rereads the stitched lettering in horror:   **Sherlock**

Sherlock…

His gaze flies up and he gets a good look at his neighbor for the first time:  Sherlock, the bastard from 221B; Sherlock, the pervert that kept him up all hours buggering the shite out of John; Sherlock, the git somehow involved in his kidnapping; Sherlock, the man he’s been cattily picking apart for the better part of five minutes.

Sherlock arches one dark eyebrow at him in bemusement.  He’s apparently too classy to ask for his face back.

Phil sighs, lowering his gaze as he dabs the cloth to his busted lip.  “Cheers.”

 

 


	2. Phil Goes for a Job Interview

**221C Baker Street**

**Phil Goes for a Job Interview**

Phil double-checks the hospital’s address with the one circled in the classifieds.  Satisfied that they’re both the same, he makes his way into Saint Bartholomew’s Hospital and toward reception. 

He has his best suit on—a grey number rented from the Men’s Warehouse almost five years ago and never returned.  The fabric strains across his shoulders and the seat of his trousers threaten to rip if he bends down too far but he supposes it could be worse; he could have had to pull out his old maroon-coloured jumper that had been all the fashion in the 90s.

He has a copy of his CV in a manila folder tucked under one arm and a wad of chewing gum wedged between his molar and the inside of cheek; a trick his father taught him to keep his breath fresh without being rude about it. 

He discreetly checks his mustache for any leftover bagel crumbs in the reflection of the Plexiglas.  Good to go. 

He smiles flirtatiously at the lovely brunette receptionist when he enters the main foyer.  She stares blandly back.  He fidgets with his tie.

“Can I help you, sir?”  She says, sounding put-upon.  Her eyes flick longingly to the Sudoku book propped against her keyboard.

He clears his throat, adjusts his tie again, and presses the newspaper against the glass.  She squints at it a moment before pointing to his left.

“Mortuary’s that way.  Three lefts, second door on the right.”

He is just about to ask her to clarify but she’s turned back to her Sudoku, completely ignoring him.

“Right-o,” he mutters to himself.  He can figure it out on his own.  He is a man of the world, after all. He tries to turn smartly on his heel, like he’s seen in films, but almost busts his ass into the splits on the freshly buffed floor.

Great start.

He tries to make it to the mortuary without getting lost.  Fate scoffs and causes him to slip twice, walk in on a half-naked elderly woman waiting for her doctor, and get stuck in a broom closet for ten minutes.  Lucky for him the janitor had eventually wandered into shouting distance.  Incidentally, he also got lost.

When he finally reaches the correct room, his hair has frizzed out, his undershirt is damp from sweat, and he thinks he’s developed a blister from walking in his pinching dress shoes.  He’s also lost his folder somewhere along the way. 

“I’M HERE FOR THE INTERVIEW.  TERRIBLY SORRY I’M LATE.  I WAS-” He shouts as he swings open the door a smidgen too hard and it slams into the wall.  Sherlock stares at him from behind his massive microscope and raises an eyebrow.  There’s a blonde man sitting on a stool next to him, who looks up from peering over Sherlock’s shoulder.

“-lost.”  Phil finishes, and at a much more subdued level, “ _You_!  You work here?”

Sherlock snorts.  “Tedious.  Of course I don’t.  I merely come here to observe.  It’s pure happenstance that you seem to keep encountering my person.”  The man’s eyes suddenly widen in excitement as if he’s just considered something.  “You wouldn’t happen to be a stalker, perchance?”

“What?  No!”

Sherlock’s eyes dim a bit at that and he turns his attention back to his microscope.  “Dull.  Anyway, I believe the person you are looking for is in the backroom just there.”  He jerks a thumb behind him.

Phil follows his motions toward a petite woman in a white lab coat who’s bent over a gurney, her shapely arse obscuring what’s probably a corpse.

He is just about to head that way when Sherlock calls out, voice dry.  “A bit of neighbourly advice?”

He turns around, trying not to show his impatience.  He wants nothing more than to get this interview over with and barring that, perhaps have a bit of a chat-up.  He sees the blonde man’s curiosity pique.

“Avoid discussing your time delving in pornography.  It hardly bears relevance.”  And with that, Sherlock dismisses him with a wave a pale hand.

Phil is flabbergasted and then, paranoid.  How the hell does this posh git know?  It had been a rather trying period of his mid-20s when he had been strapped for cash and had been in dire need of the next month’s rent.  A good friend of his at the time had remarked that he was endowed enough to do some skin flicks, an observation he hadn’t thought too much of at the time as he had been a regular at the gym at that point.

Turns out the old chap had meant gay porn. 

Phil is just about to deny it all when he notices the blonde man’s jumped to his feet.  He’s a bit of a short bloke, yet compact.  He is also wearing the same jumper Phil almost ended up wearing earlier that morning. 

He has his hand extended, face expectant. “You’re Phil, right?  I’m John.  Sherlock said ‘neighbour’ and I can only assume…” 

Phil feels himself pale.  They shake hands while he desperately tries not to think of this man getting buggered.  He fails, of course.  He can see Sherlock staring at them out of the corner of his eye.

“Yeah, I think we met during that explosion.”  He says, carefully removing his hand from the other’s firm grip.

John chuckles and scratches the back of his head.  “Oh, yes!  The, uh, wiring.  I _am_ sorry about that.”  He laughs right out this time, throwing his head back a little as he does it.

Phil looks at his Adam’s apple and wonders if he’s ever sucked Sherlock off.  His fingers suddenly itch for a cigarette.  He thinks longingly of the pack he left on his coffee table back at his flat.

“Your interview,” Sherlock interrupts, sounding several degrees cooler than earlier.  “You wouldn’t want anyone to get the wrong impression.”

“And here I am, keeping you!”  John exclaims, slapping him on the arm in the process.  Phil jumps a bit, wondering what to make of it.

Sherlock stands up just then, with a slow stretch, and saunters over.  He comes up next to them, casually sidling in-between. 

“You have a smidge of mustard,” Sherlock says to John, who raises his eyebrows at him in bewilderment.  Phil can’t see any mustard from where he’s been awkwardly shoved; he has a bad feeling about this.

“Just there,” Sherlock insists, and leans in to lick the shorter man’s face.  John splutters, his face turning an unflattering shade of red.

Yep, he thought it was heading in that direction.  His poor, hetero heart.

“Sherlock!”  John hisses, scandalized.  “We’ve company!”

“I’m sure _Philip_ doesn’t mind.  Do you, lad?  Not with your foray into homoerotic pornography.”  The taller man drawls, smirking.  He looks slightly insane, making Phil nervous.  Those colourless eyes punch holes through his gut.

Phil’s eyes start to burn and he immediately feels ashamed at himself.

“I suddenly find myself in need of the loo.  Terribly sorry.” Phil says woodenly, gesturing vaguely in some direction.  He can feel his ears flaming.

John apologizes as Sherlock’s grin widens.

Phil flees to the loo to snivel in peace. 

 

He doesn’t end up getting the job but he does get a gift basket the next evening in front of his door.  There are chocolates, a packet of Digestives, a box of store-brand chamomile, a container of bubble bath, a bottle of champagne, a packet of Kleenex, and stuffed at the very bottom of the basket is a package of feminine pads with the price tag still on it.  His mustache quivers at this indignation and he begins searching for some sort of note.  Goddamned pranksters.

He finds it carefully tucked under the pads, written on in wide and messy cursive:

_Since you insist on weeping like a woman in menstruous over some harmless teasing, I’ve enclosed all the necessities that you’ll need during this trying time of the month.  Regards, S.H._

His temper snaps and he grabs the basket, putting all but the pads on his counter, which he carefully tucks under his arm.  He grabs a post-it and a marker, and scrawls a hasty note.  He then marches up to 221B and places the package—with note—in front of their door.

That’ll show him.  Sherlock may be laughing but he’s going to enjoy every single item in the gift basket.  Much deserved, if you ask him.

 

                                                         *~*~*                             *~*~*

It’s not until hours later, when John comes home from working a double-shift, that he finds the pads.  He frowns, picking up the package with cautious curiosity.

“Sherlock,” He calls, closing the door behind him with his foot as he reads the note.  “I think this might be for you.”

Sherlock looks up from his violin, which he’s been torturing for the last twenty minutes.  “Mm?”

John throws him the pads, which the man catches deftly, and he looks down at the note.  A wide grin breaks out over the detective’s face and he laughs, startling John.

“I do believe I like this one.”  Sherlock says and tosses the package onto their side table. 

 

_Sherlock, just goes to show how little you know.  I prefer tampons. – Phil_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phil's turning into a bit of a cry-baby. Pull it together, man!

**Author's Note:**

> More to come.


End file.
